


Quality Time

by night_reveals



Series: Thursday Night Specials [1]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Animalistic, Dominance, F/M, Facials, M/M, Multi, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Submission, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick and Juliette's movie nights with Monroe take a more interesting turn when Juliette urges Nick onto his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quality Time

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://grimm-kink.dreamwidth.org/1735.html?thread=440007#cmt440007) on the grimm kink meme in response to the prompt, "all three of them cuddling on the couch. can be just cuddling or more." 
> 
> This was my first Grimm story and my first time writing a threesome. It was a lot of fun, and I again thank the people on the kink meme who took the time to comment. Special thanks to [playinthewaves](https://twitter.com/#!/playinthewaves) for the beta!

Movies have never really been Nick's thing. He realizes that some people love them: being submersed in a new world, getting to know characters, escaping their lives to live others', if only for an hour or two. His roommate in college, Garret, loved movies, and the only reason Nick has ever seen any of the classics (Star Wars, The Godfather, Psycho – you get the picture) is Garret's perseverance in coercing Nick to skip his three-hour-long Professional Ethics in Criminology class. So Nick's not movie-stupid; he just doesn't get the big deal, and he doesn't think he ever will.

Dating Juliette humors this tiny quirk – their first date he'd been desperate to spend time with her and in desperation suggested a movie: she'd told him in no uncertain terms that she'd rather do almost anything else. It's been a while since their first date, but he'll still sometimes jestingly suggest a matinee when he wants to get whacked on the hip with whatever newspaper is close at hand. The _New York Times_ isn't too bad, except on Sundays when it's like getting bludgeoned with a tiny baseball bat. Juliette has always been a good batter.

So when Juliette meets Monroe for the first time, the last thing Nick expects is for her to set-up a movie night for next Thursday at eight "no excuses accepted from either of you." Thankfully Nick has a habit of rolling with the punches, and now is no different. Movies have never really been Nick's _thing_ , but somehow Thursday nights become _their_ thing. Nick and Monroe sit next to each other on the long, ratty yellow couch in the living room, and Juliette usually takes the smaller overstuffed love-seat. But occasionally – when she must be in the mood, or when it's a scary movie and Monroe and Nick need reassurance – she'll lay her legs over them, her thighs on Nick's thighs and her feet in Monroe's lap. She's like a seat-belt that keeps them grounded, or maybe a reminder, letting them know that whatever terror lurks on screen will have to get through her first. 

The first time she'd done it, Nick had tensed up, stomach tight with forewarning and not a few nerves. They'd tried including a guy once a few years ago, at Nick's prodding – it hadn't gone well. Nick hasn't thought of it in a while, too busy with work and staying alive as a newly-minted Grimm, but it makes sense that she'd see Nick's attraction to Monroe, his fascination. But nothing happens. Not the first time, nor the second, nor the third, and Nick lets himself be lulled into complacency, happy to rub her feet or tickle them if he's feeling particularly daring. Monroe never touches either of them more than is necessary, but Nick's on to him: Monroe continues to choose the same spot despite knowing it means becoming Juliette's foot-rest, despite well knowing that Nick will end up curled around him.

Eventually the wet cold that is winter in Portland creeps into their lives, blowing through the rickety slats of their house to hover around them on the couch.

"I'll get a blanket," says Nick, shuffling in pink socks over their freezing floorboard.

"Hurry," urges Juliette from in front of the TV, where she's pushing the DVD in. "Or we'll be popsicles soon."

When Nick comes back in, Monroe is sitting quietly at the end of the couch, both hands slipped under his thighs. Nick would think that Monroe sits on them for heat, but even before winter it was the normal position Monroe took for these nights, as if wary of what his hands will do if he lets them roam.

"You’re back," says Monroe briefly. "Was beginning to think you'd been eaten, man."

"I'd be indigestible," replies Nick dryly. Monroe's lips quirk up in response. 

“Blankets, hurry.” Monroe waves Nick over with a hand that he quickly buries back under himself.

Nick sits down next to Monroe, then slings Juliette's legs up onto his own so her feet lie in Monroe's lap. The blanket goes over them, wool cool at first like a layer of frost but heating up steadily from the three of them under it. As always, Nick notes that Monroe's side is the hottest. 

Juliette clicks the movie on.

 

A quarter of the way through, Meg Ryan is panting in fear on an airplane, twisting to grip the flimsy armrest like a tornado is trying to suck her out of it. “What?” she cries on screen, eyebrows shooting up.

In front of her, Nick pants and twists slightly under his blanket for a quite contrary set of reasons. Juliette has levered herself up and put a hand at the join of his thigh and groin, running it lightly over the seam of his dark-washed jeans. At first it was a simple caress – Juliette’s way of saying “hello, I'm here and thinking of you” – but that didn’t last long. 

Somehow, despite Nick’s squirming, Juliette manages to pop the button on his jeans and slip in one, two fingers beneath the tight line of his boxers. Nick's dick arches to the left so she's only a hair away from the head, pulling his boxers tight against him. The tautness of his boxers and jeans forces a quick exhale through his bared teeth, and he squeezes a hand tight around Juliette's right thigh, both daring her to and warning her not to go farther. She's tucked up against him, breathing on his shoulder as her arm slips down beneath the blanket. Meanwhile, Nick tries not to liquefy against Monroe, who is warm and solid on his other side. Nick bumps against him for a moment like a loosed pinball, falling even further in towards Monroe before dragging himself back to the center, only their knees and shoulders touching. Nick can almost _feel_ his blood rushing through his veins, and Jesus, his pulse’s got to be too fast for a blutbad not to notice.

With Juliette's hand back on top of his thickening cock, outlining it and pressing it down, Nick loses all sense of the movie. His awareness smooths it out to background noise, flashes of noise and light hitting him through the settling dark of dusk. The curve of Juliette’s body surrounds him, her head nestled coyly in his shoulder, and every one of his breaths is filled with the familiar scent of her citrus shampoo. Wriggling beneath the blanket, Nick turns to the side for a scent of anything else that won't make this fucking woody worse – anything he doesn't associate with sex and love and caring – and almost knocks his head into Monroe's.

The next shallow breath that Nick takes earns him a waft of earthy, wooden scent. Like a blutbad. Like a clockmaker.

Monroe obviously isn’t concentrating on the movie, either. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, the laugh lines around his eyes like little rivulets in coarse sand, the muscles of his neck flexed and rigid. Nick thinks that in keeping with the paradox of Monroe, his skin will be soft though it looks harsh.

Without even knowing how he got there, Nick is suddenly hard as he's ever been, staring at Monroe as Juliette strokes, slow and steady, up and down, up and down, until Nick can't help just pushing up that tiny bit, canting his hips because she purposefully – it has to be on purpose, has to be – avoids the head of his dick every time.

Nick whines, so high no one can hear it – well, perhaps one person can. Nick has a flash of embarrassment before Juliette says "I'll be right back," and stops in the middle of a stroke, leaving Nick desperate. She drags her feet and legs off both of them, jostling them as she does, and pads across the floor to the hallway, where she disappears. 

There's barely a second before Monroe rears up to Nick's face, his canines slightly larger than usual and his hands – his hands have wolfed-out, nails long and scythe-like, hair thick on the tops. He keeps both of them on top of his own thighs, vibrating with urgency, and sniffs at Nick.

"What are you _doing_?" Monroe asks, sniffing again. One hand comes up an inch before he forces it back down, trembling. "Man, what are you thinking?"

Adrift, Nick's mind races, half his blood still pooled in his dick as it rubs harshly against his boxers and jeans. "It wasn't me, it was Juliette – "

"Tell Juliette this is _not_ funny, I can smell – " Monroe pauses, taking in another lungful of air right above Nick's crotch. His teeth suddenly lengthen more, and his words become almost slurred. "I can smell you. I need to leave, now."

"Monroe, she doesn't know what she's doing," says Nick in protest, putting a hand over himself as if to somehow stop his own scent from reaching Monroe. It's the wrong thing to do; the friction makes him bite his lip, and his eyelids flutter. By the time he's gotten a hold of himself, Monroe is already standing, shaking himself out and shedding the wolf like a dog shaking off water.

Juliette comes out just in time, the floorboards creaking as she steps into the room. Her gentle smile falters when she sees Monroe’s stiff posture, his typical easy slouch gone. The set of Monroe's shoulders, usually set like sloping hills, now sit jagged and pronounced. It must be his human body's version of hackles.

"What's wrong?" she asks, coming closer and putting a hand on his arm – an action she's done so many times, but now. Now the touch takes on a new dimension.

"I'm," starts Monroe, awkward as always, "leaving."

Instead of letting go, Juliette's hold visibly tightens, Monroe's brown and gray sweater bunching under her hand. She turns to Nick, still sitting on the couch with a hand cupping his cock, mouth slightly agape.

"What happened?" she asks, staring at Nick. Her words cut like a scalpel, surgical in their precision as she she silently wills him to keep up.

"It's nothing," Monroe replies, his words tripping over each other in his haste to defuse the situation. 

Juliette turns, smiling anew at Monroe as if she knows his weakness for her teasing mouth (it's something Nick and he must share, a soft spot in their separate hearts), and asks, “Please stay? At least a little longer.”

If Nick only had Monroe's face to go off of, he'd think it a refusal of their invitation, but he knows better: that Monroe's face never tells the whole story, that his looks are only a part of who he is, hardly the whole, and true to form Monroe sits.

Juliette follows and their tableau of the last weeks is completed, normal save for the bulge in Nick's jeans, Juliette's wicked smile, and Monroe, panting just enough that Nick can feel small wisps on his cheek.

The line of heat between them calls to Nick, and he presses his shoulder against it as he glances back and forth between Monroe and Juliette, waiting for some signal to let him know what's happening.

“Don't move, Nick,” she says, a shade blunter than before, not cutting into him but simply letting him feel the edge on his skin. Still, she can’t possibly comprehend the dangerous game she’s playing – for Monroe’s teeth are just as sharp as her scalpel of a voice, if in a different way. Between the two of them, Nick realizes he might be laid bare both body and soul, down to sinew and base wants; but instead of being scared (like he should be, like any normal human would be), lust shivers through him.

“Okay,” he finally replies. He forces open his fisted hands and lets his eyes flutter close, his head sinking down into the couch.

“I want to show you something, Monroe,” Juliette says. The sweet tone of her voice disguises its relentless precision, allowing her to slip through every one of their defenses, skin and fur alike. “Will you let me?”

Nick holds his breath, needing to hear Monroe’s response. Monroe shifts beside him, and Nick clenches his fists, squeezing his eyes shut as he silently urges him to stay – as if he can somehow ensure Monroe’s presence by sheer will power alone. 

For an excruciating moment, Nick thinks he’s about to get up and leave. He’s about to jump up to catch Monroe, to fucking beg him not to hold this evening against the two of them, when Monroe suddenly speaks, voice low and rumbling.

“Show me.”

Nick senses Juliette move, her small hand going to his gaping jeans, grazing his dick through the light material of his boxers. He sucks in his stomach in shock, holds it there to make unzipping easier. She doesn't tease at all, only begins to tug off his jeans from the side, centimeter by centimeter, before she gives up and rises. Nick toes off his sneakers just in time for her to pull, and he levers himself up, keeping his eyes tightly shut – afraid that if he opens his eyes, this will turn out to be a dream – as she peels his jeans off of him. Sitting in his boxers at last, Nick sighs, his cock finally able to rise more than a narrow width from his skin without the constraint of jeans.

Next to Nick Monroe sits placid, but Nick can imagine the thoughts and urges racing through Monroe’s mind, the strength, the tight grip he at once must both exert on himself and hold back from others.

A surprise kiss alights on Nick's cheek, fleeting and sweet. “Nice boxers, babe,” whispers Juliette into his ear, a laugh curling around her words, urging him to relax. Nick smiles – he's got on the Looney Tunes ones that she bought him last year “just because” – and he must look so goofy right now, smiling and sweating from this whole ridiculous experiment, but Monroe is still here and Nick can still smell the citrus of Juliette's shampoo, so he decides to not care, easing back onto the couch at last.

“There we go,” Juliette says, patting his stomach. 

“Can I open my eyes?” asks Nick, eager to see them both now that he's settled, ready.

There's a pause before Juliette replies, “When Monroe says you may.”

Nick breathes deep once to try and stifle a moan, then opens his mouth to exhale and forgets to close it. His head lolls on the couch, the muscles in his neck unable to keep him afloat. 

Juliette puts a hand under his chin and angles his face up, drawing him forward to where Monroe is sitting.

Later this will be embarrassing, how badly Nick wants this kiss, but right now it's an imperative that he can't deny. He opens his mouth a smidgen wider, trying to speak without words, begging by positioning alone.

Monroe's hand goes to the back of Nick's head, guiding him, and Nick stutters out a breath before lips connect with his own in a soft press.

“Oh, god,” Nick hears Juliette mutter from the side before he's towed under by Monroe, the kiss burning slow and overwhelming for it. Monroe nibbles on Nick's lips, sucking his tongue in just a little bit – who did he _learn_ that from – and then he's finally biting gently at Nick's mouth, so gently, though there's a vague sharpness there against Nick's flesh that pulses in and out, making him crazy for it. Nick suddenly realizes that Monroe is unsheathing his canines for just a hundredth of a second, over and over and over again. Nick doesn't know whether it’s on purpose or not, but some part of him sure as hell aches for it. He groans deep in his chest, surging up against Monroe in response.

Monroe breaks the kiss, and it feels like a slap. “Do not,” he says gruffly, “move,” and it is a command – Nick can hear, if not see, Monroe readjust his grip on himself, taming himself all over again.

Juliette will like this new Monroe.

“Should we take these off,” she tugs at the Looney Tunes boxers, “you think?”

When Monroe doesn't respond, Nick realizes she's talking to him. And that's why she's good at this, why they're good at this: she checks on him without impeding, pushes him till he’s at his edge, but always, always waits for him to take that final plunge himself.

Nick’s nod is shaky but his voice is firm when he says, “Yes.”

 

As soon as his boxers are down, pooled at his feet, Nick spreads his legs and reaches for his cock, where he can feel pre-come gathering right at the tip, can feel the eyes of the room on him – but his left hand is caught by Juliette, and his right hand by Monroe, holding him back from rubbing one out.

“Be good,” Juliette scolds , moving in to mouth at Nick's collarbone. Her hair spills over his shoulder, brushing his skin. From the other side, Monroe moves in with more caution, choosing Nick's ear instead. The burn from Monroe's beard fires up the side of Nick's neck then the top of his neck to the curve of his ear, while Juliette's soft lips and softer hair tickle him. It's almost too much to bear.

Nick groans. “You guys,” he tries, spreading his legs wider, pressing harder against both their knees. “You're killing me here.”

“You look pretty damn alive to me,” Monroe murmurs right into Nick's ear before growling low, so low that Nick _knows_ that Juliette won't hear it: this growl is just for him, rumbling over his skin. Monroe then snakes a hand up to the back of Nick's neck, calloused thumb finding Nick's pulse point and pushing for a split second, caressing afterward, feeling the life throb inside of Nick with every beat of his overworked heart.

The insistent sting of Monroe’s teeth replaces the soft pad of his thumb, and it sets Nick’s nerves on fire, his instincts warning him of danger even as his body is eagerly asking for more. “My eyes,” he says, the hint of a whine creeping into his tone. He wants so badly to open them, to watch Monroe at work, because not being able to see, not knowing where the next touch will come from – it’s maddening.

Drawing away from Nick, Monroe says, “Not yet. I’ll tell you when you can. Keep them shut.” His voice sounds wrecked, rough like the unfinished wood he makes his clocks from. It’s a drastic change from the way his words normally flow, eager and unrestrained over dinner or coffee. 

“Why don't we give you something else to concentrate on, hmm?” asks Juliette, running a delicate finger over his lips. Wondering what she’s planning (he can't take much more of – well, anything), Nick is almost surprised when her finger slips past his lips. Focusing, he curls his tongue around it – it smells like the peppermint soap from their bathroom, tastes like nothing but her skin.

“That’s – ” Monroe starts. He clears his throat. “Now that’s something.” 

“Do you want him like this?” Juliette asks Monroe, dragging her finger out of Nick's mouth and sliding it across his mouth to rub the spit onto his lips. Nick can only imagine how ridiculous he must look, his lips shiny, his nipples hard beneath his t-shirt, sweat starting to bead at his forehead as they play with him. “He doesn’t go on his knees much, but he’s a hard worker and he learns fast.”

“I – I know,” says Monroe, shifting next to Nick, his sweater scratching against the exposed skin of Nick's elbow.

For a second Nick is lost, wondering what Juliette is talking about. Then she slips her middle finger into his mouth again and he suckles at it on instinct; as if he's finally teased the meaning from her fingers, he realizes that she's offering his mouth to Monroe. Juliette’s correct as usual: the blowjobs he's given have been few and far between, relegated to being mostly drunken experiments. Nevertheless, he’s more than willing to break that historical trend for Monroe.

Sober, Nick knows that the floor will be hard and that his knees will ache, but fuck if he doesn’t want to suck Monroe off _right now_ , to sit at Monroe’s feet and make him quake apart. He wonders if he can get Monroe to fist his hair, wonders if Monroe will ever let the wild inside himself out of its cage, if he’ll ever buck up and just _take_. Nick can imagine Juliette curved behind him, wiping his tears away when his gag reflex rebels, and damn, he wants that so badly –

“Seems like someone likes my idea.” Juliette says, and laughs, more a movement of her body than an actual sound. She takes away her finger, much to Nick's chagrin.

It's quiet.

“What about you, Monroe?” Juliette runs a hand over Nick's stomach, pushing up his shirt and twirling a finger in the hair at his navel, circling and circling. Nick’s impatient – he wants to growl at Monroe to accept the offer already, fuck, but it's Juliette's show this time around and they both know it.

“That sounds like it might just,” says Monroe, shifting against Nick, “be a good idea.”

Still in total darkness, Nick feels a rougher, hotter finger land on his stomach right above where Juliette is playing. He clenches his abs, liking the way his stomach muscles ripple and jump under their fingers.

“Show-off,” Juliette says, teasing. She wraps one of her hands around his neglected dick at last, and he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. 

Nick feels Juliette move in to kiss him softly, letting him take the lead – it’s her way of showing that despite what's happening on the couch the final word is his. It's so comfortable and warm, her tongue and mouth under his, that he almost doesn't hear Monroe next to them – his breath hitching, then coming faster as Nick and Juliette's kiss goes longer and gets dirtier.

Juliette pulls back. It's becoming a rather disappointing cycle.

“So?” she says, a little winded. Nick crows to himself in silent victory, smug smile stretching his face. “Hush, you.” She pinches Nick, unerringly finding his nipple.

Nick hisses, swearing, and she lets up.

“Monroe,” Juliette says, and Nick can't see her but he knows that tone of voice, the one she uses on him when he's zoning out.

“Uh – ” says Monroe, and Nick thinks he actually might go and get his gun if Monroe hasn't been paying attention to their show. “Uh, yeah?”

“You want him?” asks Juliette, sounding as patient as she always does when she knows she's getting close to the cliff, wary of pushing too hard.

“Do I want him?” responds Monroe, incredulous. “Are you kidding?”

Nick can’t tell if Monroe is being sarcastic or not – until Monroe shifts again, every scratch from his sweater rubbing Nick raw, and a large hand curls into Nick’s hair, much larger than Juliette’s (he knows what hers feels like everywhere on his body). It’s hot, and when Monroe’s fingers grip his hair tightly, Nick arches into the touch.

As he stands, Monroe keeps his hold on Nick, tugging a few times. 

The floor may or may not be hard underneath Nick’s knees, may or may not be freezing; he notices absolutely nothing outside of the taut pull from above that forces his head up, the looming presence in front of him.

“Nick,” says Monroe. “Open your eyes.”

 

Nick opens his eyes.

His first second of sight is disorienting, his vision blurry. Small motes seem to hang and dance in front of him, like particles of dust illuminated by the sun. After a moment his eyes adjust, and he runs them over Monroe like a caress – takes in the bulk of Monroe’s body, the round curve of his stomach, the set stance of his feet. The small amount of light from the television makes shadows flicker in the room, spreading over Monroe’s face in an unpredictable tide, and Nick sweeps his eyes back down to see the hard press of cock that’s painfully obvious in Monroe’s jeans. Unable to hold back any longer, Nick reaches for him, both hands flying to Monroe’s zipper like birds free at last.

In a flash, Monroe grabs his wrists, stopping him from touching. Nick’s only an inch or two away from his goal, and he grumbles, twisting his hands in Monroe’s half-heartedly. “Why are you being so difficult?”

“Juliette,” says Monroe, still looking at Nick. “Think you could hold his hands back for me?”

“Why, Monroe.” Nick hears her stand and pad over, feels her sit behind him. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”

Nick groans. “You’re both – ” 

Juliette pulls his hands behind his back and places her hands over his wrists, rubbing a thumb over the thin skin, reminding him to behave but also that she’s there for him. 

“– so evil.”

“Only a few days of the month,” replies Monroe, voice husky, contemplating Nick as his own hands go to his jeans. His eyes are deep brown, with no hint of the red Nick half-expected. His face is set in an expression Nick's never seen, and Nick finds himself wanting to trace it with his hands, his mouth, and his tongue. 

Then Monroe finally undoes his belt, and Nick’s completely lost for words. The dull brass buckle weighs down the oiled leather, causing the fly of Monroe’s jeans to gape open. Nick can see that – shit – Monroe is huge. His cock nudges at the top of his boxers (plaid, what a surprise), and Nick can’t help but stare, tracing the thickening line with his eyes again and again.

“Jesus,” Nick whispers, and can practically feel Monroe roll his eyes. He’d look up to see his face, but that would mean tearing his gaze away–and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of this. 

Monroe’s hands drop to his boxers and Nick takes a hitching breath, pressing back into Juliette for a moment, allowing her to steady him. Instead of sliding them down, though, Monroe opens the hole in the front and slowly draws himself out. Only the first five inches are visible, – _the first five inches_ , because there is definitely a few more hiding under there – and Nick wets his upper lip with his tongue. Monroe is thick and uncut, skin stretched to the max. His balls are hidden along with the rest of him in the depths of his boxers, but Nick can imagine how much fatter he must get at the root, enough to be just the right side of painful. At once Nick is intensely aware of his vulnerability, especially with his hands held behind his back (however loosely) by Juliette. Nick knows he could use them to help control the pace, that without them he’s liable to do something truly humiliating – like gag himself with his own eagerness – but he’ll hardly complain now, not when he can barely think for arousal.

“Stay there for a second,” Monroe instructs. He wraps a hand over his cock, making a circle of fingers and moving his foreskin back and forth bit by bit. He sighs. 

“Monroe,” Nick breathes.

“Is this okay?” asks Monroe, moving his hand faster, his cock a foot away from Nick. 

Nick barely remembers to answer Monroe, fixated on the sight before him like an animal watching a treat held up in front of his face and waved around. Anything is okay, anything is okay, “Anything is okay,” Nick finally gets out, arching forward to get closer.

“No, stay.” Monroe’s voice cracks as he leans back, keeping himself out of Nick’s frustrated range. “Don’t touch.”

‘Don’t touch’? What does Monroe want Nick to do, on his knees like this, if he isn’t going to let Nick _touch_ him?

The hand that isn’t on his cock goes to Nick’s head, until Monroe is holding Nick’s head back with one hand and aiming down at him with the other, pulling on his cock hard. He’s huffing, and the thought suddenly hits Nick full-force: Monroe intends to come all over his face, coating him in the scent of a blutbad. Once he’s realized it, Nick is destroyed, trampled by his own thoughts. The memory of watching Monroe piss all over his fence comes to mind, Monroe claiming his territory with a few quick movements. Is this Monroe’s way of marking him, of letting everyone know that Nick somehow belongs to him? 

Juliette leans into him, the sweet smell of her skin anchoring him, bringing him out of his headspace and back to the present. “Open your mouth,” she whispers. Her voice and familiar smell somehow calm the fierce blaze of his arousal, ensuring that it doesn’t burn him, and he obeys without another thought.

One of Monroe’s hands is damp with precome, the other in Nick’s hair gripping tighter and tighter. Nick winces but Monroe doesn’t stop, snarling now, lost to instinct. Nick surprises himself with how much he wants this: his mouth and eyes open, drinking in Monroe’s creased face, whose lips are chapped and bitten, face twisted in a rousing imitation of his wolf-self. Nick knows that he literally cannot move his head unless Monroe permits it, and the knowledge seems to short-circuit his brain, leaving him panting with a mix of frustrated need and submission. The cold air fills his lungs, a sharp contrast to the hot blood pumping through his veins.

His eyes flick to the root of Monroe’s cock, and Nick at last notices a prominent bulge that starts from right where it begins to disappear into plaid fabric. It’s strange-looking, not like a human’s normal thickening, and indeed Monroe’s flesh seems almost purple as it gets closer to his body. Nick only has a few more seconds to wonder at it before Monroe snarls once more, loud enough that Juliette’s hand clutches at Nick’s in surprise for a moment – and comes. 

Nick’s first thought is that he’s been scalded, a line of Monroe’s come hitting him flush on his face, dripping down the bridge of his nose to rest on the bow of his mouth. He blinks, shocked even though he expected it, and gets the second just as he’s opening his eyes. It lands on his hairline, trickling down to his scalp, more landing on his chin and falling off onto his shirt. The final, weakest spurt makes it mostly into his mouth, and he wrinkles his nose at the taste before reflexively swallowing, pushing the come to the back of his throat. 

The slight movement of his head reminds him that Monroe is still gripping his hair, feet set apart as he breathes deeply above Nick, sniffing the air. Monroe tucks himself away with one hand, not bothering to do up his jeans yet, then puts it at Nick’s forehead, taking his thumb and smearing his own come over the small lines there, working it in. Monroe’s concentrating on his task, and Nick watches him, staring at Monroe’s face as Monroe’s lip lifts to show a slightly elongated tooth.

Nick obediently shuts his eyes and leaves his face tilted up as Monroe works his own come into Nick, brushing it over Nick’s cheeks, his lips, the line of his jaw. It feels reverent, like a ceremony, each action smoothly following another, Monroe never pausing in his movements. Likewise, Nick falls into a trance, held aloft by Monroe’s grip on his hair, boneless and waiting. 

When Monroe releases his grip on Nick’s hair, Nick falls back into Juliette. Her warmth is suddenly the only thing keeping him from freezing as he notices the temperature of the floor and air around him, his breath coming in white frost clouds in front of his face. Monroe is zipping and buttoning his jeans and then tries to redo his belt. He fumbles with the clasp of metal in his hands, but Nick reaches forward and helps him slide the leather home. Nick pulls it tight and glances up, knowing what a mess he must look like. The come on his face is drying already, cool on his skin, crinkling at the edges and beginning to flake off onto his neck and shoulders, though the majority still sticks to his face. 

Then Monroe apparently decides he’s not comfortable with anything post-coital, and the next minute is a whirlwind of limbs as Monroe hastily makes his goodbyes, stepping back and almost tripping on the carpet runner that lines their entrance way, scampering out the door like a terrified puppy. 

Juliette shoves Nick forward unceremoniously, her fingernails raking his back. He catches himself on the hardwood floors, hands immediately chilled from the contact. He turns to watch her wriggle out of her jeans, her panties, and dip a hand to herself. She moans, inviting, and Nick is on her in a second, not even bothering to pick her up and move her to the couch, just throwing himself on top and sliding in deep. 

“Holy,” she gasps, putting her hand in Nick’s hair, right where Monroe’s was not a minute ago, “fuck, what _was_ that?” 

Nick growls, unsure of what she’s referring to – the facial or Monroe taking his abrupt leave – and he can’t find it in himself to care right now, biting her shoulder and tightening his hands in her long, smooth hair, unintentionally creating a mirror image.

Her hand not in his hair goes to rub herself off, clever and quick, and Nick stutter-moans to feel it against his stomach, pressing on the trail of hair up from his dick. He licks his lips and tastes Monroe’s drying come, which makes him enormously happy he hasn’t yet kissed Juliette. Then it makes him think about being held in place on the ground, knees cold, eyes fixed up on Monroe, unable to do anything without permission – and he is coming without warning inside of Juliette, her own cry following only a second later. 

“I,” says Nick, still inside Juliette, awkwardly aware that he’s just fucked her on the floor, “you okay?”

Juliette gives him a look. “I’m fine. Monroe, though...I may have rushed it. I thought he was ready.”

“I’ll call him in a few hours. He’s probably out running.” Nick thinks back to Monroe’s hold on his head, the contained power and how comfortable Monroe had been with taking control, with coming all over his face. “But really, I think he’ll be okay.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Nick smirks and Monroe's come crinkles on his face, an obvious reminder. Monroe may be freaked now, but he'll calm down; he'll come back home. “Ten bucks says we see him next Thursday.”


End file.
